Shadows in the Night
by Dreamwraith
Summary: -V:tM- After the Prince's men fail to protect a precious artifact, a coterie is assembled to recover it. As they are drawn deeper into the mystery behind its disappearance, they begin to realize that some secrets might be better off left hidden away.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Vampire: the Masquerade. All characters belong to their respective creators.

I want to acknowledge my role-playing group for this story, although they don't know that I am posting this. So a big thank-you for this goes out to the guys: JL, TS, GB, BE, ME, JW. Most especially, this is for those who made the 'sneakiest tree in the woods' possible.

Welcome to the World of Darkness.

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"**Shadows in the Night"**

**Prologue**

(February 4, 1992)

Amy Reese Cooper watched the Mardi Gras celebrations from atop the roof of The Club. The Club was named as such because the Prince could not be bothered to think of something better while its new building was being constructed, farther away from the prying eyes of the mortal world. Amy did not mind the current name. Its innocuousness was protective.

Amy was a Malkavian, and contrary to popular belief, she knew much about the value of protection. Masquerading as human was all that kept their kind from destruction from the far more numerous kine, the humans they fed upon. Minding one's elders was all that kept young Kindred from being murdered in their sleep. Obedience to one's sire was all that kept a newly-made vampire from being turned loose in a dark and terrible world, where all the rules and all the odds were against them. This, she understood.

"It's a good thing, then, that my sire is half a world away," she spoke into the wind.

"This is New Orleans," said the young man standing behind her. "Everything is half a world away."

"Only because you're used to London," she replied.

The young man came up beside her and grinned. "Everything pales next to London."

Amy glanced over at him. He stood out against the bright skyline, his hair black and his skin nearly white. He could have passed for a teen who spent too much time playing video games during his summer vacation. For that matter, so could she. But she knew better. After all, he was just as old as she was. He was also a clanmate. She smiled back. "There are mists in the bayou, too, and the song is just as sweet," she told him.

"I know," he said easily, and he leaned over the lip of the building. "Just thinking about it makes me hungry. It was so much easier back then, do you remember?"

Amy sighed wistfully. "I do. I do. Have you spoken with Dominick yet?"

The young man blinked. "I didn't know he was back in town. Did Mariel come with him?"

"I don't think so. She said something about hunting back home."

He sighed, louder than Amy had a moment ago. "I miss her. It's a shame she followed Dominick away. This place was nicer to us than London was, those last few weeks."

Amy gave him a pointed glare. "This place is nicer to us because it is more forgiving of those who aren't quite right in the head. You, my dearest Aram, are a perfect example of that."

Aram glared right back at her. "I am _too_ normal. More normal than the Gangrel we left behind and far more normal than the Tremere."

The Tremere. That damned Tremere. The reason Amy was in New Orleans. Had she still been mortal, her gut would have clenched. However, since her brief acquaintance with Death many long years before, she had learned that there were other symptoms of fear that she could manifest. One, which she felt now, was the chilling of her blood. She suppressed a shudder and looked away.

Aram knew what she tried to keep hidden, though. He always did. He always had. Potentially, it was a side-effect that arose from the two of them being Embraced by the same sire, at the same time. They were closer than mere Kindred siblings, though, much closer than anyone had ever been able to guess. "He can't find you here," he murmured.

"But he suspects."

"So dye your hair blond. He'd never expect you to give up that brown-red color."

"_Auburn._"

"Is that what they call it these days? Oh, well. It doesn't matter. Dye it and find one of the fishies to make it stick."

Amy tore her attention away from the street, where her gaze had settled on the crowd of party-goers. She could just make out the Keeper's shadow in the club's entrance. "There aren't many of those on our side, though, and you _know_ how our Prince gets when she catches people snooping for the fishies," she said after a moment.

"Linden would know how to find one, and she would let him."

"Linden isn't here." Amy felt uncomfortable after saying it. She and Aram had tried not to speak of it since their Gangrel… companion… had disappeared years ago, under some rather mysterious circumstances. Once upon a time, she, Aram, and Linden had been known as the Unholy Trinity, for they balanced each other as few coteries ever could. Being more than a little crazy himself, the Gangrel fit himself in with the two Malkavians remarkably well. Between the three of them, there was little they could not do.

"Of course he's not," Aram snapped. "If he was, the sneaks never would have gotten to his amulet. We never should've – "

"Can it," Amy interrupted angrily. "Hindsight is 15-20, and there's nothing we can do about it now. We'll wait for the Prince's group to come in, and then we'll get it back. Simple as that."

"Simple? They tore through the Sheriff like he was butter!"

"And he's still undead!"

Aram shook his head, unfortunately tangling some of his curls. He squawked upon discovering this and frantically finger-combed his hair back into place before speaking again. "Isn't he lucky?" he said sarcastically. "He's been in bed forever now, trying to recover. Do you want matching scars? Because I guarantee that's what will happen if you go after that amulet now. People are bringing him breakfast in bed. In _bed!_"

"But it can't stay with them!" Amy whined. "If they figure out what it does, we'll hit Armageddon long before Gehenna even comes!"

"It won't be that bad."

"It will! You've never had that thing chasing you down, with its breath on the back of your neck, and hell, its _tongue!_ Saliva! Ack! No! I don't taste good, I swear!"

Aram waited for the young woman to calm back down before he said anything. He didn't want her working herself into a crazy-frenzy, after all. He rather liked this Elysium spot. He liked being able to gather peaceably and meet up with the other local Kindred in a club in the middle of the city rather than an art museum somewhere in the next town over. Well, he could always do something about it, being Malkavian and all, but the last time he did she had gotten so _mad_…

After several minutes, Aram asked, "If you would like, we can think this over and decide what to do later. The Prince might be willing to let us go along with them as long as we promise to behave ourselves."

"_Behave_ ourselves?" Amy cried in a shrill voice. "Behave? When have I not behaved myself while out on business? I'm a woman on a mission, damn it!"

"I seem to recall something about London Bridge."

"That one is the Tremere's fault! He flings fire, remember? Do you blame me for getting out of his way?"

Aram smiled. "Yes, yes, I do. But still, we have to be quiet about this, what with him still looking for you and all." At Amy's protest, he raised a hand. "I know he's not supposed to be able to find you here. He's not allowed here. He's not allowed anywhere on the East Coast. That doesn't mean that he doesn't have spies here or hasn't devised some magical means of scrying you out. I'm just saying that we have to be careful. We've done too much to hide ourselves to risk outing ourselves now. Even for Linden."

Amy nodded reluctantly. "Linden would agree," she said after a minute. "But he would also make certain the group wasn't part of that supposed spy network. Be a dear and go check it out, would you? I have some conferring to do."

Aram's gaze slipped to the small purse she carried, which her hands were both wrapped tightly around. The cloth was faded in places, the darker, natural color outlining what looked suspiciously like handprints. _Conferring, indeed_, he thought. He knew what she hid in that purse, of course, and he knew that if she was bringing it out of hiding, she thought she was facing a very serious decision.

"I will," he promised. "But do try to enjoy the festivities tonight. Mardi Gras season comes but once a year."

She nodded and smiled, and then she headed for the fire escape.

"And don't light up anything you don't need to!" he called after her.

Her laughter trailed up the fire escape. She was gone.

Aram's attention returned to the people below the building. The Keeper of Elysium, a Brujah who called himself Wrench, was standing in the doorway of The Club. No doubt he would be within arm's reach when the Prince met with her chosen group. He was an effective bouncer and an even more effective Keeper, and his presence might quell any dissention that would arise. The locals knew his reputation. Hell, even the Malkavians knew better than to harass him while he was on the job. However, he was no bully. The man had an appreciation for the finer things in unlife that could rival any Toreador.

As Wrench nodded to a passing Brujah, Aram mentally reviewed the five Kindred the Prince had summoned to the task. Three of them were locals. One was from the good old city. One was from up north. One was a verifiable elder. The rest were young but of potent blood, and thank the gods of chance for that. They would be better able to weather the winds of fate that way.

Aram had heard of the three local boys: Efren, Sebastian, and Jonathan. Efren was a 'Toreador', and he kept company with the Elysium harpies, the other 'artistes'. He was a popular trance DJ in a nightclub near Canal Street. Jonathan was a Brujah, although he did not know anything more about him. Sebastian, he knew. He was one of the few resident Malkavians in New Orleans, although at least a dozen were present during the festival season. Ah, the festival season, when so many transient Kindred passed through the city. Who could blame them? New Orleans was a hotspot of activity around this time of year. It was something to see. It was also how the group was going to avoid detection by mortal eyes.

The vampire coming in from the north was an Assamite, an assassin. He hailed from Syracuse, New York, although it was doubtful that that city was his birthplace. He was a mercenary. Aram did not like that one bit. The thought that the only things that would keep him from sating his bloodlust in the city were the Prince's money and his clan's inability to drink Kindred blood left a foul taste in his mouth. He would have to keep a close eye on him.

The last of the Kindred hailed from London. He was an elder Brujah who had run into a spot of trouble as a neonate and had been in torpor until a few decades ago. He would be arriving with the Justicar in a week or so.

"What a mess this will be," Aram said aloud, pondering the crowd below him. "Let's just hope there's something left of the city when they're done with it."

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Feel free to ask questions about this chapter in a review. That way, I will know what needs to be explained better, although some things are deliberately left vague. Thanks for reading!

~Dreamwraith


	2. Chapter 1

I should clarify that I was the one who ran the game, so I did not give my initials in the list of people involved. As such, I will embellish and expand upon the events that happen in this and the following chapters because there was more going on than the group (save one) ever realized.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Vampire: the Masquerade. The characters found within belong to their respective creators.

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**Chapter One**

(February 17, 1992)

Aram leaned against the door leading into The Club, and his presence seemed to dissuade the humans on the from trying to enter it. It was probably a good thing, since any kine that walked through that door without a patron would be drained faster than a keg of beer at a frat party. Efren watched him from across the street as Aram smiled at some young female passers-by, and he huffed as they giggled at him. That Malkavian could coax a smile from a dead woman with those eyes of his, and not because he was using some parlor trick!

It was rather unfortunate that there were so many damned kine running around the street, Efren thought as he glanced over the crowd of partygoers and tourists, because the greetings he would have given Aram were inappropriate for anything but a Kindred audience. Of course, he would not have been able to greet him properly anyway. He was a "Toreador". Aram was a Malkavian. The other Toreador would shun him if such an association came to their attention.

Then again, how does a predator greet another predator?

It was nearing Mardi Gras, and the streets were decked with lights and streamers and all manner of party favors. Street vendors had set up their displays an hour or two before dusk to catch the crowd, and if their loud calls were anything to go by, they were doing well for themselves. Efren stopped at one and paid for a few strands of beads, which he shoved deep into his pockets. His fans would love them – and him, for giving them away.

Efren was a DJ at an up-and-coming trance club a few blocks away from Canal Street, near The Club. Trance was not yet popular in New Orleans, but he knew it would be. He had spent too much time and enough of his resources on appearances for it to not become widely known. In the city scene in particular, he had made it a point to be memorable, both with his music and with his looks. It was the only reason he constantly wore black. Not too many people wore nothing but black clothing this close to Mardi Gras.

Well, that, and black looked good on him.

_And this would be the point where Aram makes a comment about how fashion sense is the first thing to go after we die,_ he thought with some amusement. _After all, how many of us wear black as a daily staple? 'Yes, of course, sir. I only need three things to survive, sir – BBC. Blood, black, and cover. What's that, sir? Oh, no, thank you. Just a little more black.'_ He laughed aloud, startling a nearby couple. The man, who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, merely looked startled. The woman, dressed similarly, glared at him as they both scurried away. He heard their voices trail after them – "The nerve of these punks! Dressing like _that_ in public!"

He glanced down at himself. Black leather pants, boots, and a shirt made of black netting that left little to the imagination. Well, it could not be helped, and he could not care less. It made catching breakfast in the evening easy. It would also be very fashionable in a few years, and he preferred to be called a trend-setter over a poser.

The paper sticking out of his belt drew his attention as he raised his eyes again. He would have wadded it up and thrown it away had it not been from the Prince – and from the Gangrel Justicar. _Why would a Justicar from London be involved in something in New Orleans?_ he wondered. _We have nothing to do with them. Someone here must have done something very interesting for a person like that to have business here._

To say that he was curious would have been an extreme understatement.

_Damn._ He had had to leave the trance club early for this midnight meeting, and his fans would be disappointed with him, but it could not be helped. When the Prince beckoned, one obeyed – a 'royal summons', so to speak.

_Or else what?_ he wondered as he crossed the street. _Well, one might lose a limb, or their status in the city. One might be permanently disfigured, _and here he suppressed a shudder, as Toreador tended to be very vain, _or given over to the Tremere, I suppose, if there were any in the city. _Oh, well. At least the summons would enable him to enjoy a higher status among his peers, for the time being. They would enjoy grilling him for details about the strange gathering.

He had no more time for reflection, though, because he was standing before the club's entrance and Aram was smiling at him. He winked at him as he felt the back of his mind itch slightly, and the Malkavian returned the wink. Then Aram opened the door and walked in. He held it open for the other man and said, "I am the escort today. Wrench has business elsewhere."

The words tumbled from Efren's mouth almost before he finished thinking them. "Where else would our Keeper be?" he asked. Then he cursed himself mentally for his lapse.

"Damned if I know," Aram replied, "but I'm sure it's important enough. Not like the time when Marilee started screaming about Sabbat on the waterfront. False alarm and all that. Nothing we could do about it. She almost got us _all_ in trouble for that one." 'All', of course, meaning the city's Malkavian population, both permanent and transient. Just because the Prince also happened to be Malkavian did not mean that the rest of the clan made off with lighter punishments…

Efren could almost see the Malkavian's thoughts reflected on his face, and he wisely interrupted them. "Shall I see myself in?"

Aram shrugged and looked over the Toreador's shoulder, at some face in the crowd. "Yes," he murmured, as if he was transfixed. "You know where her door is. Knock first. She was not in a good mood earlier."

Efren winced and slipped by him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. No, seriously. Don't. And keep your head on your shoulders."

He would have questioned the Malkavian further, but Aram had already slipped out the door. He sighed as the door closed and rounded the corner of the entryway into the room.

Once more, Efren found himself wondering if the Prince had planned the entrance to be in the corner of the room on purpose. He felt like he was making a grand entrance even though he was nobody important.

The Club was not a large place. It was meant to cater almost exclusively to Kindred and serve as a permanent Elysium, an idea the Prince had brought with her from overseas when she had first come to the New World. As a fixture, it was easy for non-local Kindred to find, and within its walls there was no fear of discovery by the kine. It even had a bar, and it served more than just strong spirits. No, it was not a large place, but it was comfortable. It could almost be called safe.

The room was about as dark as an average nightclub could be expected to be. The lights were suspended from fixtures on the walls - also expected, as The Club's previous incarnation had been a human sit-down restaurant. The windows were tinted, thank the deities, so that no mortal could see in through them. Against the wall to the immediate left of the entrance was the bar, over which hung the legal maximum occupancy sign. Past that was the door to a conference room. Opposite the bar and across the dance floor were tables and chairs. These lined the wall.

To the right of the entryway was the large-windowed wall, in front of which were high tables with bar stools. Opposite this wall were more tables and chairs, behind which was a small divider that separated any instruments or DJ equipment from the rest of the room. This wall also held the door to the Prince's personal office.

Efren scoffed mentally at the sign as he walked by the bar, straight toward the Prince's door. There were rarely more than thirty Kindred in the room at any time. There weren't even that many Kindred residing in the city. If all the transients and residents were to suddenly descend upon the place, it might be a bit crowded, but it would not be horrible. They would run out of chairs, and that might be dreadful given some of the festivities they partook in, but it could be an improvement on the way things generally were in the Elysium.

A few of the regulars were in already, most of whom were already seated, finishing crossword puzzles and beginning philosophy debates and doing heavens knew what else. Alicia Martinez, one of the local Toreador, acknowledged his presence with a small nod of her head before turning her attention back to someone he did not recognize. One of the Ventrue elders was seated in a corner with his newest childe, patiently teaching the young man how to interpret stocks data with the day's newspaper as an example. There were others as well, but these he did not acknowledge, yet. _Time enough for that later, _he thought.

He ignored the bartending ghoul's greeting as he stopped before the Prince's door and composed himself. Then he reached out and knocked on the door. He heard a woman's voice bid him to enter, and he complied.

The Prince's office was very informal, set up more like a conference room than an actual office. A solid hardwood table took up much of the room, upon which was piled several stacks of papers. Eight chairs were spaced more or less evenly around it. One woman was already seated at the table – the Prince.

Prince Patricia glanced up at him from her latest daily report and smiled. "How kind of you to accept my invitation, Efren," she said. She had a nice, motherly sort of voice that had unsettled more than one Kindred who had been expecting something else, one that could give the wrong kind of impression about her – and one that belied the kind of person she truly was.

"But of course," he replied graciously as he seated himself. "Anything for my Prince."

Patricia snorted and looked back to her paper. He very quietly sighed and resigned himself to being bored for quite some time.

Fortunately for him, he was not bored for long. He heard footsteps outside the room, and then a dark-skinned man in a suit strode in the door. Efren started. One of the things he had learned in his few years of unlife was that most Kindred grew pale as they aged. Marilee, one of the semi-local Malkavians, was dark-skinned, but she was young. Her skin would acquire a ghastly white undertone within a century or two. This man was obviously not young. He held himself with too much confidence.

Efren did not want to believe it, but the man who had just entered the room was an Assamite.

Just as he was wondering why and how the Prince had secured an Assamite's contract in New Orleans, another knock sounded at the door, and a man in a trenchcoat entered the room. This man made Efren's skin crawl. Not only was he repulsive to look at, he was repulsive to smell. He was as pale as a fish's underbelly and his eyes were as black as the bottom of the ocean. The odor of sewage followed him in. As the man drew closer, he realized that the irises of his eyes were yellow and that he had no ears, merely holes that cartilage should have been protecting._ A Nosferatu,_ Efren thought with some distaste.

The Assamite and the newcomer locked eyes, and some look passed between them. Then they both looked away from each other. They each had obviously decided that the other was not worth the trouble. A good thing, too. Patricia was giving them both the evil eye surreptitiously, from beneath lowered lashes, as she stared down at her paper.

As the tension in the air grew thick enough to cut, two more people walked into the room. They did not wait for Patricia's response after one of them knocked. Efren recognized Aram, the young man from the door, and Amy, another of the local Malkavians. Aram winked at him again. Efren groaned quietly. There were too many Malkavians in this room already, and the meeting had yet to begin…

His mental grousing was interrupted by a strange clicking. He looked over at the source of the noise and was shocked to see the Assamite pulling a strand of Mardi Gras beads from his pocket and extending them to Amy, with a sly look on his face. Obviously, the Assamite did not know she was a Malkavian, or he might have thought better of it. She was scowling at him. Had Efren's heart still been beating, it would have skipped a few. One did not openly insult a Malkavian if they wished to keep their thoughts in one piece. Of course, how would the Assamite have known how she would react?

Unfortunately, he did not retract the beads in time. The Prince's eyes lit up.

Anyone with any kind of perception would have seen a look of horror cross the faces of Efren, Aram, and Amy. They knew their Prince. Hell, anyone who knew that the Prince of New Orleans was Malkavian would have known better than to do that.

Patricia leaped from her chair, and they all were gifted with a sight none of them had ever wanted to see. She lowered her shirt after she was sure she had performed her Mardi Gras Bead Obligation properly and snatched the beads from the Assamite's hand. Then she whooped – "Woohoo!" – and ran from the room. Efren never saw her open the door. He only heard it shut behind her.

_Typical Malkavian_, he thought dourly, and then he dismissed the thought. There were enough Malkavians in this city that did not act like normal Lunatics that he was glad when one of them did.

The room grew silent again, this time with anticipation rather than tension, and Efren found himself wondering how they were going to have this meeting with the Justicar and the Prince when the Prince had run off. There were only a few minutes left until midnight, and the last thing this city needed was a slighted Justicar.

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I should let you know at this point that I do not run a strictly canon game. Some of the names and faces will be familiar, but know that I and "JL" have twisted them a bit to suit the purposes of this story.

Thanks for waiting, and thanks for reading!

~Dreamwraith


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